Tag Archives: Mark Goad

Looking Down

by Mark Goad

The wide-eyed watching moon
lies flat against the jet sky,

sees every large and small thing,
witnesses every kiss and lie,

impassive (which is not to say
uncaring). It is not waiting

for you to make a mistake, merely
wonders who it is

that does the things you do.


The Lies of Poets

by Mark Goad

Poets are poor liars
unless they are talking about themselves
or their poems.

Other than these, they’ve got
not a lying bone in their bodies.

Sometimes they do lie to lovers
and former lovers. When absolutely necessary,
to their children. Sometimes
to themselves. And if, unfashionably,
they believe in God, sometimes
to God, too.

Other than these, they’ve got
not a lying bone in their bodies and

probably, I certainly wouldn’t
lie to you.

And Are We Yet Alive?

by Mark Goad

The hand of the wind has got hold of the trees
throttling them, shaking hell out of them,
threatening to tear them from their rooted places ending
their long years of defiance and beauty.

The leaves roil, lift, fall, twist, shudder, shake,
feather-ruffle, sail, cling for dear life but appear unconcerned
as though the wind is what they have been waiting for,
as if disaster is to be – with calm equanimity –

The wind increases, screams,
a walnut in the front yard loses its footing
and unhurriedly falls, silent, dignified, from its place.
The wind is placated and abruptly stops. The trees stand still
and at attention, like surprised mourners stiffly-stood
at a cousin’s funeral whose death reminds them
they had forgotten he was still alive.


Faux Li Po, Fragment After Rain

by Mark Goad

Jeweléd leaves surrounding,
a bowered enchantment.
                                                          Too romantic. Instead

call it diamonds dripping golden in morning sun.


Little Apocalypse

by Mark Goad

When the sky fell you looked up
as when a stranger shouts “Look out!” and
automatically you look up at the limb falling
to crush your body

underneath. There was no avoiding it. But
you are alive and oddly,

different from anything you were before but
bearing an aftertaste like longing
of that earlier self

and wondering what the hell is coming next
from that unknown elsewhere
whose existence you do not yet quite believe.


62 and New

by Mark Goad

62 and new.
There are worse things

but I can’t think, today,
of what they are.

I’ve painted over
all the mirrors.

Cupped hands,
a bowl of trembling.


I’m Just Saying

by Mark Goad

Do people with tattoos sit alone in the evening
silently contemplating their artwork? I’m
just saying.

Do they trail fingertips across their blazoned
skin with eyes closed feeling for
a textural difference?

Does brightly-colored skin itch

Are tattoos an aphrodisiac? For
which partner?

How long does tattooed skin stay
bright underground?

I’m just saying.